


God's Red Pen

by kavikdante33



Series: God's Red Pen [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chuck as God, Episode AU: s05e22 Swan Song, F/M, Gen, What the Chuck am I writing!?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavikdante33/pseuds/kavikdante33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An author is a god in creation of their characters and their world. Except God Himself doesn't always know how his characters will react. See, there's this little thing called free will.  So He's decided to take a sabbatical and let his characters plot out their own destinies. His editor has several choice phrases for Him, most of them starting with 'God damn!'</p>
            </blockquote>





	God's Red Pen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shotinthedark33](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shotinthedark33).



> If you recognize it, it's probably Kripkes'. If you don't its my own twisted grey matter at work. Italic lines taken directly from the episode Swan Song. Don't own, just playing with. If you don't like it, be a god and create your own. Flames will be given to Lucifer to laugh over and add more reasons to destroy humanity. Have a nice day!

_On April 21, 1967, the 100 millionth GM vehicle rolled off the line at the plant in Janesville -- a blue two-door Caprice._

_There was a big ceremony, speeches. The lieutenant governor even showed up. Three days later, another car rolled off that same line. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala would turn out to be the most important car -- no, the most important object -- in pretty much the whole universe. She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd drive around giving Bibles to the poor "gettin' folks right for Judgment Day." That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile. After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Motors, a used-car lot in Lawrence, where a young marine bought her on impulse. That is, after a little advice from a friend. I guess that's where this story begins._

 

_“And here's where it ends.”_

 

Chuck removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Finishing the next several chapters was going to require a lot more drink if the flashes of future events were as heartbreaking as they looked. He reread some of the lines he had written with a faint niggling sensation. Something wasn’t right. Did he misspell something or skip a sentence?

 

 ***

 

_“You’ve got to promise not to try and bring me back.”_

_“What? No, I didn’t sign up for that.”_

_“Dean”_

_“Your hell is going to make my tour look like Graceland. You want me to just sit by and do nothing?_

_“Once the cage is shut you can’t go poking at it, it’s too risky.”_

Chuck wanted to bang his head on the keyboard, if only it wouldn’t mess up what he had already written. Winchesters seemed incapable of doing the practical, safe thing after all. Did Sam really think that Dean wouldn’t try planning the ultimate jail break if it meant saving Sam from Hell? Scanning the rest of the paragraph didn’t make Chuck feel any better.

_“You go live some normal apple pie life Dean. Promise me.”_

 

Chuck kept staring at the end of that chapter. A resounding, “I promise,” never came from the driver’s seat. Only silence.

_***_

_The Impala, of course, has all the things other cars have... and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important._

_“This is the stuff that's important”_

_The army man that Sam crammed in the ashtray - it's still stuck there. The Legos that Dean shoved into the vents -- to this day, heat comes on and they can hear 'em rattle. These are the things that make the car theirs -- really theirs. Even when Dean rebuilt her from the ground up, he made sure all these little things stayed, 'cause it's the blemishes that make her beautiful. The Devil doesn't know or care what kind of car the boys drive._

Chuck never hated his name more as he finished throwing up whiskey and a microwave meal. It could be worse, he silently told himself, I could be named Ralph. Groaning over the toilet, he tried to halt the images of his latest vision. The warped and rotten form of Heaven’s former brightest angel. Lucifer playing Sam and Dean. Sam still saying yes with full conviction. The twisted smirk on Sam’s face while being possessed by the Morning Star. Dean’s look of anguish as he shouldered the burden of failure and watched his brother vanish.

 

Despite all that though, the Winchesters were still being their stubborn selves and kept swinging. Sam was clawing at Lucifer and Dean was still looking for a last minute Hail Mary pass.

 

“They must be the most persistent beings in the entire universe,” Chuck groaned while slowly standing. He caught a whiff of himself and decided a shower and change of clothes was a necessity, even at the end of the world.

 

_***_

_It wasn’t an entirely new position for Dean to be in. In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day -- sometimes a week, if they were lucky. They'd pass the time lining their pockets. Sam used to insist on honest work- but now he hustles pool, like his brother._

_They could go anywhere and do anything. They drove 1,000 miles for an Ozzy show, two days for a Jayhawks game. And when it was clear, they'd park her in the middle of nowhere, sit on the hood, and watch the stars... for hours... without saying a word._

_It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls...but they were never, in fact, homeless._

_“That's a good line.”_

The phone rang, starting Chuck out of his musings.

_“Mistress Magda?”_

_“Um, no, Chuck,” says Dean._

_“Oh, uh, Dean. Uh, wow. I, uh, I didn't know that you'd call”._ “Liar” whispers a little voice that sounds too much like Himself.

_“Who's Mistress Magda”?_

_“Nothing. She's a, uh, a -- just a, uh... a close friend.”_

_“Yeah, I'll bet -- real close. Whatever happened to Becky”?"_

_“Didn't work out. I had too much respect for her.”_

_“Boy, you really got a whole virgin/hooker thing going on, don't you?”_

_“Okay, this can't be why you called.”_ Chuck replied trying to avoid a clarification of a point that hit a little too close and yet so far away that to explain would be awkward all around and require more whisky than he had on hand.

_“Sam said yes.”_

_“I know. I saw it. I'm just working on the pages.”_

Oh boy did he know, the vision’s accompanying migraine not the only reason for tears to squeeze out of his eyes.

_“Did you see where the title fight goes down?”_

_“The angels are keeping it top secret -- very hush-hush.”_

_“Aw, crap.”_

_“But I saw it anyway. Perks of being a prophet. It's tomorrow, high noon -- place called Stull Cemetery.”_

_“Stull Ceme-- Wait. I know that. That's -- that's an old boneyard outside of Lawrence. Why Lawrence?_

_“I don't know. It all has to end where it started, I guess.”_

_“All right, Chuck. You know of any way to short-circuit this thing?”_

_“Besides the rings? No. I'm sorry.”_

I’m so sorry Dean. Sorry is inadequate for all the hurt and sorrow in everything I have written for you and your brother. I am sorry. 

_“Well, do you have any idea what's gonna happen next?”_

_“I wish that I did. But I-I just -- I honestly don't know yet.”_

_“All right. Thanks, Chuck.”_

 

Chuck wearily scrubbed at his face, hoping to banish all the guilt and anguish he was feeling. It was the end of the world as they knew it and Dean Winchester still thanked him. He slumped back down in his chair, fiddling with the flotsam and jetsam of a writer on his desk. Copies of the previous books and fan mail pulled him from his melancholic thoughts. To some they were just horror stories, legends and creatures that didn’t exist except for in tales around the campfire. Some fans though, like Damien and Barnes seemed to grasp a little more understanding. The Supernatural books were tales about being part of something greater, saving the world and always knowing there is someone who has your back.

 

Chuck couldn’t help but think that for the characters who were actually living out the Winchester Gospels, that they would describe it as something different. Saving people. Hunting things. The family business. Family that doesn’t end with blood and never giving up on one another, no matter what the sin. All the rage and pain and sacrifice at the end of the day being worth having spent that day with your brother.

 

_***_

_Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. The fans are always gonna bitch. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass._

 

Chuck let out a long exhale. It was almost finished. But how could he end this? The Winchester brothers who faced every evil monster and obstacle with sheer grit and guts. They had defied gods, angels, and demons, upsetting plans that had been in motion since before time. Dean, the Righteous Man, who did what the Prince of Heaven could not, defy an absent father. Sam, the Boy King, betting his fragile soul against the brightest Son of Heaven, and _winning_. Chuck knew that at the beginning it was about saving the world, but in that moment when Lucifer bloodied Dean, all Sam could think about was his brother. They could be scarily co-dependent and protective of one another, but even possessed they would never kill each other. Is this really the finale for these extraordinary souls?

**

_This is the last Dean and Bobby will see of each other for a very long time. And, for the record, at this point next week, Bobby will be hunting a rugaru outside of Dayton. But not Dean. Dean didn't want Cas to save him. Every part of him, every fiber he's got, wants to die, or find a way to bring Sam back. But he isn't gonna do either. Because he made a promise._

_So, what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test... for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and God himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point?_

 

“The End”

Chuck leaned back in His chair, setting the now empty glass beside the laptop. He frowned at the screen, mouse paused over the save icon. The blinking cursor at the words “The End” was hypnotizing. Was it really the end? Was that really the climax of the decisive battle between good and evil, Heaven versus Hell, or was it something more? Something more complicated, but simpler than the universe intended.

 

His hand faltered over the keyboard.

 

“We’re making it up as we go,” Chuck repeated softly to Himself, remembering the strength and quiet hope in the eyes of an angel who was minutes away from being smote out of existence.

 

An angel of the Lord, falling from grace into the bewildering confusion of humanity was willing to die, faithfully believing that God’s plan could be flouted.

 

The way Dean said “no, that’s not gonna happen,” still clinging to the belief that he could save his brother despite being told that he would have to fight and kill Sam by his own father, archangels, and demons. The way Sam still prayed to an absent God, not for himself but for Dean.

 

When He first started writing He saw how the plot was going to advance. He thought He knew every aspect of His characters. How they thought, talked, and acted. The beginning, middle, and end defined. But they surprised Him. Ineffable souls going off script. And He liked it.

 

“Click”

_Deleted._

“Click”

 _Messages sent_.

Chuck smiled and vanished.

_No doubt -- endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?_

 

**

 

An alert sounded on the system of a red headed hacker in Chicago. She clicked on the link, muttering, “Yay, con info must be out early…hmm, new theme this year for LARPing…oh, wow…no more red bulls after 48 hour coding marathons…must be hallucinating…what’s a wendigo?”

 

**

 

A Baltimore cop jadedly checked her inbox. She was burning out with all the crap cases that were crossing her desk. No one in the precinct had the whole story about her dirty partner but penance still had to be paid. Unsolved cases, reluctant witnesses, and extra paperwork were just the cherry on top of a series of graveyard shifts. Hopefully this email would be the last of the day. Taking a swig of her lukewarm drink, she opened the documents. Minutes later, her computer screen was sprayed with coffee and her chair was empty. A scribbled leave of absence form fluttered on her supervisor’s desk.

 

**

 

A student finished his history paper with three extra pages. A notification popped up in the lower corner of his laptop screen, making him pause. He was supposed to start practicing the cello now, but he had been waiting on an advance placement notification for over a week now. The first scan of the email had him sighing in disappointment, it wasn’t from his school. A closer look revealed that the emails address did end with .edu.

 

Dear Mr. Kevin Tran,

 

Congratulations on being nominated and selected for admittance into our exclusive program by several of your teachers due to your academic achievements and assessment of character…

 

His eyes widened as several phrases popped out at him; _full scholarship_ … _room & board included_… _extensive firsthand field work_ … _guaranteed entrance in any further educational institutes_ … He clicked on the link and was soon lost in all the opportunities offered. Ancient and modern languages, world religions, and the classics. Physics and engineering. Music. An extensive selection of physical activities including fencing, archery, and some sort of martial art.

 

He soon forgot about his frustration concerning advance placement.

 

**

Mistress Magda smiled at the name on her phone’s screen. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched at the contents of the text message. It had been ages since she was surprised by her friend, but this promised to be such fun. She sent back a reply; 4 u old friend, anything. Even @ discount.

 

She snapped her phone shut, placing it in her leather pocket and started making plans to cancel other clients’ appointments. An assignation such as this would require skillful planning and all of her attention.

 

***

 

_Fingers slowly slid upwards underneath the thin t-shirt, stopping to cup her breasts._

_“I’ve missed you, baby. Next time you should come with us on the hunt. Don’t want to wait so long to be with you.”_

_His clever fingers pinched and rolled her nipples as he pressed her firmly to his muscular chest. She could feel his throbbing member through both of their jeans._

_“You feel so good sweetheart. I’ve got to be inside you soon. I love you so much…”_

 

“REBECCA!”

 

Becky Rosen jumped, the irritated voice of her supervisor completely and instantly shattering her fantasy.

 

“I don’t pay you to sit around and daydream Miss Rosen. And you were definitely not hired to sit around and write this trashy smut on company time,” said Stanley, gesturing at her computer screen.

 

“Sorry, Stanley, er, Stan,” Becky replied, cringing back and averting her eyes. This was about the seventh time she had been caught writing fan fiction, but the first detailing the love between her and Sam. Sam with his puppy dog eyes and gorgeous hair. And his firm, muscular torso. Hmmm…

 

“Rebecca! Pay attention and get your head back in the real world! You have responsibilities to this company. I hired you as a favor to your mother, she hoped this would ground you in normality and not waste your time daydreaming and messing with stupid occult nonsense. You were so promising, Rebecca, what changed? You should be settling down with a nice young man and having children…”

 

Becky tuned out Stanley as her phone chirped an alert. The caller ID had her frowning. She and Chuck had broken up amicably enough, but he never texted her. He preferred Skyping, just in case his messaged were hacked. Again.

 

Tapping open the first attached file as Stanley droned on, she wondered what would cause him to break this habit. Chuck had been under a lot of pressure lately, with visions coming faster than he could write. She had managed to eke out a few scraps of information about the latest manuscripts and what she learned was worrisome. She had complete confidence in her Sam and Dean, but too many concussions surely weren’t healthy for them.

 

The file finished loading and she read it. Reread it. And read it a third time for good measure.

 

“Miss Rosen! Did you hear anything I said?”

 

Trembling, she put her phone in her purse and gathered up the rest of her things.

 

“Where do you think you’re going Rebecca?” Stanley demanded, grabbing her arm and halting her progress.

 

Becky whirled around, breaking his hold. Gone was the meek and outcast Miss Rebecca Rosen. In her place stood Becky Rosen, samlicker81, queen of the Supernatural fan sites and fan fiction archives. She was also the trusted confidant to the author of the Winchester Gospels.

 

“It’s _Ms. Becky_ Rosen, _Stanley_. Soon to be Mrs. Becky _Winchester_. And I’m leaving. See, I know what’s out there in the real world and it’s not this. I’m going to save the saviors and find true love. I’m going to live the occult, the weird, and wonderful. I’m going to be living my dream. So, _Stanley_ , I QUIT!”

 

The passage out of the building was a blur. She regained focus in her car. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight, the knuckles were losing color. The trembling had returned, shaking her body as much as her emotions. Suddenly, she stilled.

 

“OH MY GOD!”

 

Every dog within a ten block radius let out howls to rival the continuous high pitched squealing of the fangirl.

 

**

 

Carver Edlund’s editor slumped wearily at her desk. Their main investor for the Supernatural books hadn’t been in touch for a while and the financial department was screaming for someone’s blood. Preferably hers in a crystal jar wrapped in memos and red tape. It was frustrating to depend on the number crunchers to make her precious novels become reality.

 

The Supernatural books had at first been a punishment from her boss. No one was interested in reading about creepy, killer clowns and vampires that didn’t sparkle nowadays. They wanted mass produced bullshit with a foreseeable plot, insipid characters and a happy ending. Her boss was looking forward to firing her when the books flopped.

 

And then a miracle happened.

 

A whisper on the internet about the books turned into a dozen websites and chat rooms.

 

Fans started appearing and petitioning for conventions.

 

A wealthy, Scandinavian financier bankrolled the entire publishing operation of the Supernatural books.

 

She sighed; it was the last one that bothered her. Normally the investor contacted her at least once a month, but she hadn’t heard from him for several. They usually discussed the current book and laughed at the antics of the characters. She could really use a laugh now.

 

She decided to check her inbox one last time before heading home. She smiled when Chuck’s email address appeared. He had promised that he was working on the latest book and would email her the manuscript for editing.

 

_Click_

 

…

…

…

 

“OH MY GOD! WHAT THE FUCK! OH. MY. GOD!”

 

The accountant paused, hand raised to knock, outside her door. He decided he would tell her the news later when it no longer sounded like she was destroying everything in sight.

 

**

Emails, texts, and files arrived at their destinations across the globe. Messages in more esoteric forms also slid their way through the cracks in space and time. Some were immediately read. Others were not. Plans were made and discarded. Fate slammed her book shut and decided to go on an extended vacation.

 

And one broken, wounded man arrived at a friend’s doorstep, unaware of it all.

 

 

 

The Beginning

 


End file.
